There is no sky in hell.
Clara had learned this in the rattling, lightless cage that had brought her here. She had learned it in the choking, sulfurous air that burned her lungs and in the oppressive, deep-earth heat that clung to her skin like a fever.
Viregate was not a building. It was a wound carved into the living rock of a volcanic mountain, a place of eternal, suffocating twilight. The walls wept with a black, mineral damp, and the only light came from torches that burned with an unnaturally greedy, crimson flame, casting shadows that writhed and danced like souls in torment.
The journey ended with a screech of iron on stone. A heavy gate was thrown open, and she was hauled from the cage, stumbling onto a floor of polished, obsidian-like rock. Around her, other prisoners—men and women, some defiant, some weeping, some catatonic with fear—were being herded like livestock by guards with pale skin and dead eyes.
Vampires. All of them.
Their movements were too fast, too silent. Their voices were low, bored murmurs that carried an ancient, predatory weight. This was not a mortal prison of bars and wardens. This was a pantry. A kennel. A place where humans were stored until they were needed.
Clara kept her head down, her wild raven curls falling around her face, a curtain to hide behind. She made her body small, her shoulders slumped. She let the terror she felt show in the tremor of her hands, in the wide, doe-eyed fear in her storm-gray eyes.
Let them see a broken, frightened girl. Let them see what they expected to see. It was the first and most important lie. Inside, beneath the fear, was a core of ice. For Isadora. For Elias. For Bram. You will live through this. It was a mantra, a prayer, a promise she had made to herself in the dark.
They were stripped of their clothes, the last vestiges of their former lives tossed into a heap to be burned. They were herded under jets of freezing, acrid-smelling water that shocked the breath from their lungs, then thrown coarse, shapeless shifts of grey linen. The fabric was rough against her skin, a constant reminder of her new status. She was no longer Clara Wren, a tailor's assistant. She was a thing. A number. A piece of property.
A tall, imperious vampiress with hair like spun silver stood before a massive, iron-bound ledger, her long, sharp nail tracing a list of names. She did not look at the prisoners, only at the ink on the page.
"Debtors to the mines," she announced, her voice echoing in the vast, cavernous hall. A group of grim-faced men were shoved forward by the guards. "Thieves to the kitchens. Politicals to the isolation wards."
With each pronouncement, a group of souls was herded away down one of the many dark, gaping tunnels that led from the hall. Clara waited, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest.
The vampiress's nail stopped beside a new set of names. Her lips, the color of a fresh bruise, curled in a faint, cruel smile. "The new acquisitions for the Blackwythe tithe. To the Courtesan Wing for processing."
A murmur of fresh horror went through the remaining women. The Courtesan Wing. Even in the whispers of the city, its reputation was a dark stain. It was where the prettiest prisoners were sent. Where they were trained, broken, and sold to noble families as beautiful, breathing ornaments for their drawing rooms and private chambers. Playthings. Blood dolls.
Clara felt a guard's cold, strong hand grip her arm, hauling her forward with several other terrified young women. She kept her eyes on the floor, her face a mask of pale, docile fear. This is a role. Play it well.
The tunnel to the Courtesan Wing was different from the others. The rough-hewn rock gave way to polished marble, the crimson torches replaced by glowing crystals embedded in the walls that cast a soft, ethereal, violet light. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of a cloying, exotic perfume that failed to mask the underlying stench of despair.
Gilded cages lined the corridor, and inside each was a woman. Some were breathtakingly beautiful, dressed in scraps of silk, their faces painted into perfect, doll-like masks. They sat silently, their eyes empty and unfocused. Others were huddled in the corners, weeping softly. One was screaming, a high, thin sound that was abruptly cut off as a guard slammed a gloved fist against the bars of her cage.
This was to be her future. A gilded cage, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.
The thought should have broken her. Instead, it fed the ice in her veins. She would not end up like them. She would pretend. She would smile, she would bow, she would learn. And she would watch. She would find a weakness in this place. A crack in the stone. And she would break it open.
They were brought to a halt before a pair of tall, ornate iron doors. A guard spoke to a figure standing just inside. "The new shipment, Master Rulien. As ordered."
"Bring the merchant's girl," a voice replied. It was a man's voice, smooth as velvet, cold as a tombstone. "The others can wait."
Clara's heart hammered against her ribs. The merchant's girl. They knew who she was.
The guard shoved her forward, through the doors and into a large, circular chamber. The room was opulent, a stark contrast to the rest of the prison. The floor was covered in plush, blood-red rugs, and velvet divans were scattered around a central, bubbling fountain.
And leaning against the fountain, as if he were a king in his throne room, was a man.
He was beautiful. It was a terrifying, inhuman beauty, like a statue carved from moonlight and cruelty. He had hair the color of spun gold, and eyes so pale a blue they were almost white. His fine, noble features were perfect, aristocratic, and utterly devoid of warmth. He was dressed in immaculate black, a silver signet ring on his finger the only ornament.
He was a vampire, but he radiated a power that made the guards in the hall seem like common thugs. This was a predator of a higher order.
This, she knew with a sickening certainty, was her handler. This was Rulien.
He pushed himself off the fountain and moved toward her, his grace so fluid it was unnerving. He circled her slowly, like a wolf inspecting a lamb, his pale eyes taking in every detail—her threadbare shift, her trembling hands, her porcelain skin.
"Clara Wren," he said, his voice a soft, silken purr that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. "The little martyr who confessed to a crime she did not commit to save her family. How… pathetically noble."
He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the cold radiating from his body. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, her breath catching in her throat.
"Look at me," he commanded.
It was not a request. It was an order woven with a subtle, compelling power that tugged at her will. She resisted, her mind screaming, No, but her body betrayed her. Slowly, shakily, she lifted her head, meeting his gaze.
His eyes were like chips of ice, and they seemed to see straight through her feigned terror to the defiance she was hiding beneath. A slow, cruel smile curved his perfect lips.
"Ah, there it is," he whispered, as if he had found a prize. "A flicker of fire. Lady Valestra detests that. She prefers her pets to be… docile."
He reached out, his fingers unnaturally cold as he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze fully. His touch was light, almost a caress, but it felt like being branded.
"My name is Rulien Draeg," he said, his voice dropping lower, becoming almost conversational. "And it is my task to extinguish that fire. To tame you. To make you a perfect, obedient little thing worthy of being sold."
Clara's mind was a whirlwind of panic, but she forced her expression to remain one of pure, unadulterated fear. She let a tear spill over and trail down her cheek. It was a calculated move, a piece of the performance.
Rulien laughed, a soft, musical sound that held no humor. "Tears? How boring. You'll have to be more creative than that to move me, little bird."
He released her chin, and she nearly sagged with relief. He turned and walked back toward the fountain, his back to her.
"The Courtesan Wing is a place of re-education," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "You will learn how to speak, how to walk, how to please. You will learn that your body is not your own. It is a commodity. An asset belonging to House Valestra. Your thoughts, your will, your memories… they are all liabilities. We will strip them from you."
He turned back to face her, his pale eyes glinting in the violet light. "Most girls break within a week. Some, the more stubborn ones, take a month. They all break eventually. They learn to smile when they are told, to offer their wrists without being asked, to find pleasure in their own subjugation."
He paused, letting the horror of his words sink in.
"You, however," he continued, a new, speculative light in his eyes. "You have a strength in you. A foolish, misplaced strength, but it is there. Lying to a creature like Lady Valestra takes a certain… resolve. I think your re-education will be a particularly interesting project."
He gestured to one of the guards who had been waiting silently by the door. "Take her to her cell. Let her contemplate the lessons she is about to learn."
The guard grabbed her arm again, his grip bruisingly tight. As he began to pull her from the room, back toward the corridor of gilded cages, Rulien's voice followed her, a final, chilling promise.
"Welcome to your new home, Clara Wren. I do hope you'll be entertaining."